That One Night
by CG Rags
Summary: In a world with a history much different than our own, Harry Potter deals with a universal question; what is my purpose? Rated M for language and sexy times.


James Potter was a veteran. He had fought in the African jungles in 1968. "Out of patriotic duty", he would say in a bitter voice as he related those troubling times to his son. "We gave everything for this country. We fought and died for the Queen. And for what?" he would say, dissolving into tears as he raved about how it had all been a dirty lie. Harry must have heard that story a thousand times. His father had grown up in dark times. Harry didn't believe things had gotten any better in the intervening years. Great Britain was more politically unstable than ever, and the rest of the world wasn't doing any better.

The war was still a big issue with his dad, so Harry avoided talking about it; all his life he had seen James Potter faithfully attend his veteran meetings and support groups. He had seen his dad don his uniform every time the newest protest was organized and stand in the rain and shine and hurl obscenities at the Parliament and Queen. Harry couldn't stand it, but he didn't say anything. He knew his dad had been through hell, and he didn't pretend to understand what that meant.

He just wished that things were different. He wished that he had been born in a normal family. He wished that he wasn't a wizard. He wished his father didn't suffer from crippling PTSD. He wished his mother hadn't been shot in the chest by some ganger and left to die in front of her two kids, aged six and three.

Harry had never been more relieved than the day he had received his Hogwarts letter in the mail, telling him that he had qualified to attend the school to develop and perfect his god-given magical abilities. The day the Ministry of Magic case workers had arrived to take him to buy school supplies had been one of the best days of his life; he had felt the weight being lifted off his shoulders. No more living in a home where the stress was thick enough to choke on. Now he had a new home. Hogwarts.

The next seven years passed in a blur, at least four of which he spent higher than a kite. From the moment Lee Jordan and the Weasley twins had introduced Harry and his classmates to the joys of LSD, marijuana, heroine, and, of course, LED, Harry had been hooked. He didn't regret a minute of it. He attributed his exceptional grades to his substance abuse.

But like all good things in life, those seven beautiful years of shirking responsibility came to an end. Society demanded he take responsibility for his life. Hogwarts dropped him into the real world and he recoiled, seeking refuge while the friends he had made over the past seven years moved on.

Now he was back to living with his dad. Two years had passed since graduation, and he was still here. As the weeks turned into months, the nagging doubt in the back of his mind that he was stuck there forever seemed to grow each day. He ignored that doubt with stern vigilance. Fuck that, he was in control of his life, and fuck anyone that suggested otherwise.

So it went. He blotted out uncomfortable thoughts any way that he could, no matter how shitty it left him feeling the next morning. So it was a late Friday night that found Harry in front of a mirror, getting ready for a night out on the town. He brushed the hair from his eyes, wondering if he had let it grow too long. The thought passed. Satisfied, he turned, grabbed a leather jacket off his bed, shrugged into it, and left his room. He descended rapidly, his feet hammering on the stairs.

"Dad!" he yelled, "I'm going out." He put his hand on the door knob. He looked over to see James Potter slouched on the couch, reading some cheap magazine while the flickering light of the TV played across his face. His dad hadn't even noticed. Harry shrugged, opened the door, and stepped into the cool night. The door closed with a click. James Potter glanced up for a moment, before returning his attention to the magazine.

Music is life. This is the way it always has been. In those days, punk music ruled the underground. It was a mix of anarchism, illegal drugs, and faddish styles; in other words the perfect outlet for the young and rebellious.

Harry was certainly both. He never felt more at home than he did in the center of the dance-floor, letting the music twist his guts and rattle his bones. This was one of his favorite clubs, an old hangout. Tonight's act was the underground legend Lila Cheney. He had loved her before she was famous. He yelled as she belted out one of the otherworldly anthems that made her famous. She was playing to a packed house, and everyone was in a frenzy.

Harry had managed to find a girl to dance with. Her hair was electric blue and she had a few more rings in her face than he was used to, but the way her body pressed tightly against his made him a believer. She had slipped him some purple tabs earlier when they had met. LEDs. She was a witch then, no way muggles could get a hold of those.

It was two o clock before they left the club, thoroughly trashed. The memory of that night was faded, fuzzy.

Harry woke the next morning to find the girl from last light lying next to him, snoring softly. They were both naked. Harry sat up and rubbed his eyes. Shit.

As he slid out from under the covers, she woke and sat up, yawning widely.

"Hey," she said, watching him gather his clothes. He didn't respond till he pulled his skivvies up. Only then did he meet her eyes. Green. Just like his.

"Sorry," he said, "What's your name?"

"Tonks," she answered, before asking a question of her own, "Did we fuck? I can't remember a damn thing."

"Neither can I," he said, pulling his pants on. She fell back with a groan.

"Shit," she swore, "We were so blitzed. I can't keep this up."

He nodded towards the kitchen, "You want breakfast?"

She shook her head, "No, knock yourself out."

Harry managed to scrounge together a meager breakfast from what little he could find. As he was pouring milk over the cheerios, she sauntered in, a t-shirt hanging down just far enough to make him uncomfortable, and took a seat at the table. "So what's your name?"

"Harry Potter," he said.

"No shit?" she said. "I learned about you in Auror academy."

"What? You're an auror?" he said, dropping his bowl. Milk and cheerios splattered across the tiled floor.

"I never made it past the academy," Tonks said. She grabbed her wand from the counter and vanished the mess, "I washed out."

He sat down across from her, "How?"

"Drugs. The Prime Minister was on a kick, he wanted to clean out the Magical Law Enforcement Department. The Chief Auror had known I had been using for a long time, so he made me the scapegoat to prove that they were getting shit done. So now I work security at Flooberts down in Diagon alley."

"What'd they say about me in training?"

"Not much. They just said that it was you that Tom Riddle was gunning for back when he started the wizarding war in '78. You and that Longbottom kid."

"Huh," said Harry. He wanted to pay attention, but she was distracting him badly. That shirt hugged her anatomy in ways that were demanding his attention. It took him a moment to realize she was watching him watch her. They stared at each other for a moment before a shade of a smile played across her lips. She stood and walked around the table to stand in front of him. Grabbing his hand, she pulled him out of the chair while her other hand found his belt. Harry didn't resist as she guided him back to her bedroom.

"You're not going to forget it this time, Harry, I promise," she said.

As she undid the buckle and pulled his jeans down around his ankles, he slid his hands under her shirt. She held her arms up, and he peeled it off of her. She laughed, and they were suddenly in each other's arms, kissing, touching, and then tumbling back onto the bed in a tangle of limbs.

Harry had forgotten how good sex could be. Tonks helped him remember. She murmured into his ear as he thrust into her, moaned when he tattooed her neck and shoulders with kisses, and scored his back with her nails when she came, her whole body arching beneath his own. It was dirty. It was savage. It was slippery. By the time they finished, they were fully spent, and it felt delicious. They lay next to each other, staring at the ceiling of her flat, hearts pounding as the sweat dried on their skin.

"So what do you do?" said Tonks after a long while.

"Nothing really," said Harry, "I've been wasting my life for the past two years."

"Yeah? How do you figure?"

"Ever since I finished Hogwarts, this has been my life. No job, no direction. This is it," said Harry.

"Not a bad life as I see it," she said, rolling over to look at him, "But then again maybe that's why my mum and dad are always ragging on me. What about your folks? Are you close to them?"

"I live with my dad. He fought in the Congo. It ruined him, I think," said Harry looking over at her. She reached over and ran her hand across his chest.

"And your mum?" she asked, her fingers trailing down over his belly.

Harry looked up at the ceiling once more. "She was murdered."

The fingers withdrew. The silence that followed was long. Harry knew Tonks was trying to figure out what to say. He saved her the trouble.

"It's fine. My little sister and I helped each other get through it. We could never help dad though."

Another silence, shorter this time, followed before Tonks spoke, "What about your sister?"

"She's a squib. She lives with my aunt and uncle. I talk to her every once in a while. She's happy."

"Good. I'm glad for her," said Tonks.

They spent the rest of the day in bed; fucking, talking about anything and everything, and then fucking some more. Wash, rinse, repeat. By the time the two of them decided that they had had enough, it was late afternoon. They dragged themselves out of bed, showered, and shimmied into their clothes. Harry grabbed Tonks's number before he left. He was not going to fumble this one.

As he stepped out into the hallway and turned to say goodbye, she stood on her tiptoes and gently brushed his lips with her own, and whispered a quiet thank you. He promised again to call her, and descended the stairs.

He returned to his house to find his dad asleep on the couch. He gently put a blanket over his father's sleeping frame, and went to check the mail. One letter addressed to him, from Hermione. He hadn't heard from her in at least ten months, not since she had gone to work for the Department of Magic Affairs over in the United States.

He opened the envelope gingerly, and removed the letter inside, covered by Hermione's neat, compact writing. As he read, he felt a warmth associated with familiarity come over him. Damn, he missed the good old days. He put down the letter, thinking about what the future could hold. For a moment he was inspired, and that was all he needed. He went upstairs, each step full of purpose, and entered his room. In the corner was a trunk he hadn't touched in over a year. He set aside the pile of dirty laundry that was laying on top of it and peered inside. After a minute, he found what he was looking for; a scrap of paper with a number and a brief message written on it.

_If you ever change your mind about becoming an Auror, _it read, _the offer still stands. I owe your mother that much. –Severus Snape_

It had been written in Harry's sixth year. He pondered for a moment, reflecting on the possible futures that lay before him. An artist, a writer, an architect, a scientist, an auror, a philosopher, a visionary…he could be any one of those things. He just had to get off his ass and do something about it. He was tired of letting life shape him. It was time for Harry Potter to shape his own destiny.

He went downstairs and picked up the phone. After a brief moment of hesitation, he dialed the number. He listened to it ring once, twice, three times, before a familiar voice answered. Harry swallowed.

"Professor? It's Harry. About that offer…I am ready. When can we get started?"

The End


End file.
